The Worst Game to Play
by grednforgesgirl
Summary: So it's true. It wasn't a nightmare. My daughter's name was drawn in the reaping.   "There's more, sweetheart, and you aren't going to like to hear it."  It can't get much worse. Haymitch opens his mouth...And it's worse.  "The boy tribute is your son."
1. The Announcement

It's a typical night at the Mellark household. A rarely peaceful one, at that. I sit with my legs tucked under me on the couch. My daughter sits in front of me, allowing me for once to brush her beautiful blonde hair. Peeta lounges on the far end of the couch, watching me and our daughter with a contented smile. I'm humming happily and maybe that's why he looks so peaceful. Our son sits in the chair, sketching in his notebook. The television is on, but the only one watching it is my daughter.

The music of the evening news report picks up. My son looks up and turns the volume up slightly. Peeta leaves to get a glass of water. I start to braid my daughter's hair.

The reporter babbles on about a slight shortage of goods from District 8, how the tomatoes from 11 have been infected with some kind of bacteria and as such there will be a shortage of those, too. There's some kind of celebration going on in District 4. It's going to rain in 3. Commercial. Travel to beautiful District Four and see the ocean . . . an advertisement for a candy bar . . . a new brand of soap from the Capitol . . . back to the news. It's down to three contestants for a singing show. The one Plutarch started up and wanted me to be the star of. They go on about that for a while before they hit up the big news.

"And finally, we have a very special announcement!" The reporter says. I look up to see him looking unusually excited. He's pretty young. He had to have been born after the war. A slight sheen of sweat has appeared on his forehead and he's practically giddy with excitement. "I have the unique pleasure of announcing the return of the annual Hunger Games!"

* * *

><p>My daughter squeals as a large chunk of her hair is ripped out. Peeta breaks the glass of water he's just gotten from the kitchen. My eyes are glued to the television now. <em>Please say it's a joke, please say it's a joke . . .<em>

"No, I'm not joking," says the news reporter excitedly. "The newly appointed president has issued the order last week for the return of the Hunger Games!"

"That's right folks," says the female reporter sitting next to him. "For those of you that don't know, the Hunger Games is an annual event where each District will be able to participate. Two special children, one boy and one girl from the ages of twelve to eighteen will be chosen randomly from each District. They will be brought to the Capitol to be trained in the art of survival, and will enter an arena to fight for the glory of winning for their District."

I grip on my daughter's thin shoulders tightly to stay steady. Peeta topples to his knees, unsteady on his prosthetic leg. His eyes are stuck on the television, his hands bleeding from the broken glass. His eyes reflect the horror I feel.

"Now, I know what you must be wondering," says the male reporter. "When and where do I sign up? I know it's exciting folks, but the tributes are chosen randomly at an event called the reaping. Everyone will get a fair shot. One slip for every year older you are from twelve, no exceptions. The reaping will take place in your local city square on Tuesday next. Remember, attendance is mandatory! We'll see you there!"

"This is Panem news reporting from the Capitol, goodnight!"

Anthem. Seal. Cut out. Fuzz. Silently my son turns off the television.

* * *

><p>The room is completely silent. Our children are looking back and forth between myself and Peeta as if they do not quite know what just happened. I myself don't know.<p>

Peeta's the first to recover.

"Naan," he says, surprisingly calm. "Go get Uncle Haymitch."

My son nods, and jumps up quickly. He pauses to help his father up off the floor, then scurries out the front door.

"I'm going to make some phone calls. I'll be right back," says Peeta. He looks at me. "Don't do anything drastic, Katniss. Stay right there."

"Drastic?" I squeak, appalled. _"Drastic?_"

"Yes, drastic. It's a mistake. It's got to be. I'll fix it. Stay right there."

I'm glued to the spot, anyway. Peeta leaves, goes to the study where the telephone is, shuts the door behind him. I listen carefully, hear the soft tones of his forced calm voice though I can't make out what he's saying.

Haymitch bursts through the front door followed shortly by Naan. I feel a shot of anger when Haymitch starts laughing. Already he's drunk. I guess the news announcement was enough to push him back over that edge. He hasn't been totally wasted in a long time.

"I guess I should have known this would happen," he snorts, throwing back clear liquor straight from the bottle. I stare at him in disbelief. "Things were too peaceful. Can't let us get too happy now, can they? No, of course not. We should have known they wouldn't let us win."

"How could we have possibly _known?_" I burst out furiously. My daughter jumps. "This . . . this isn't supposed to happen! People _died_ so this would never happen again! We fought a _war_ so this would never happen again! This can't be happening!"

"Well, sweetheart, looks like it is," says Haymitch drily, dropping into a chair. He looks around. "Where's your darling husband?"

"He's making phone calls. He's trying to fix this. That's more than you're doing, isn't it?"

"Hey, you're the one who called me over here, sweetheart. Don't get high and mighty with me. I was perfectly happy drinking the problem away."

"You stupid drunken _bastard!"_ I shout angrily, jumping up from the couch. My daughter barely scrambles out of my way. I approach Haymitch with a finger raised and he has the good grace to at least look afraid. "Did you _not_ just hear what that reporter said?" I point at the blank television. "He said the Hunger Games are coming back! _The Hunger Games!_"

"I can hear, you know," snarls Haymitch. "I know what he said."

"I'm not sure you understand what that means," I growl. "They said children aged twelve to eighteen. Naan is fifteen and Perilla is seventeen. Don't you get—?"

And all the sudden I'm chocking at the realization. Naan is fifteen and Perilla is seventeen. Their names will go in those glass balls. My children. My babies. The ones I swore I would never have because of this exact reason. They are eligible to enter the Hunger Games.

I fall to my knees, my hands clamped over my mouth in horror.

"Finally figured it out, have you, sweetheart?"

* * *

><p>AN: _Hello there, all! So, I had this idea, what if Katniss's worst fear came true? What if her kids entered the Arena? And then, just to make it more interesting, what if BOTH her kids entered the arena and only one could come out? And here it is! There's more to come, I promise. _

_I hope you like the names I picked for Peeta and Katniss's kids. I stayed true to the books, and named them after bread and plants. Perilla, (nicknamed Prilly) who is their daughter, is the one named after the plant. Perilla is a type of mint plant. And Naan, who's their son, is named after the bread. Naan is a type of (What else?) Pita bread._

_So, I really hope you'll enjoy this, and please leave reviews!_

_~gfg_


	2. Happiness is Fragile

A/N: _Multiple F-Bombs warning. And other words mother wouldn't approve of, lol. Peeta has a tirade :P_

* * *

><p>Peeta has yet to emerge from the study. I am leaning against the couch, my knees curled into my chest. My daughter is twirling the hairbrush nervously in her hands. Haymitch sits in the chair, drinking heavily. He'll be insensible soon. My son is sitting where he was during the news, his notebook open. But he doesn't draw. He's tapping his pencil against the pages.<p>

_Tap tap tap._ _Tap tap tap._

I start to chew on my nails nervously. I strain my ears to listen to what's going on in the study. I can hear Peeta pacing back and forth. I can just barely catch the words he's saying.

"Yes . . . thank you. And how can I contact him? . . . that will be fine . . . no . . . thank you . . . you too."

His tone is curt, impatient. He hangs up the phone and falls silent. His pacing increases in speed. Then he stops, and starts speaking again.

"Yes, hello, is this President Drekker's office?"

His voices turns from impatient to sweet and charming, a hint of flirting. It must be a female secretary. I search for any jealously and find none. I want him to do whatever it takes.

" . . . yes, this is Peeta Mellark, from District 12. Perhaps you've heard of me? I was a Victor in the Games a few years back . . . yes? Oh, good. Then you must know why I'm calling . . . yes, I am . . . I just saw the evening news report . . . Is the president terribly busy? I was wondering if I could speak with him. . . . Oh, I'm sorry to hear that . . . well, thank you so much, I would appreciate that . . . yes . . . thank you . . . I'll be waiting . . . thank you . . . you too."

He stops speaking. Silence for a few moments. Then there's a loud crash followed by the sound of breaking china.

I start to get up, but Haymitch shakes his head at me.

"Don't you dare go in there right now," he says, standing. I'm shocked he doesn't fall over, considering the amount of alcohol he's ingested since he entered the house. "You'll probably send him into an episode. I'll go."

Haymitch goes to the study door, opens it. I catch just a glimpse of Peeta pacing back and forth clutching at his hair before Haymitch shuts the door behind him. I dart to the door to listen in better.

"That son of a _bitch,_ Haymitch!" I jump. There was no need for me to come across the room. Peeta's shouting. "Who the_ hell_ does he think he is? That pompous, arrogant, son of a bitch! _He can't do that!_ It's against the fucking _LAW!_"

"I know, Peeta, calm down—"

"Don't tell me to calm down!_ You_ have nothing to worry about!"

"Yeah, because you're the only one that cares about them."

"I don't give a damn what you think! This isn't about you!"

"I wasn't trying to make it about me. You were, though."

Haymitch is an idiot. Now is probably not the best time to be a smartass.

"_You_—!"

I hear another crash and wince. Peeta is in a towering temper. Anything Haymitch says right now will immediately be deflected. There's no talking sense to Peeta right now. I wonder why he's even bothering trying.

"Peeta, calm down!"

"NO!"

Yet another crash. The sound of breaking crystal. I hope he's smashed that horrible vase Johanna gave me for my birthday and not that beautiful mockingjay Annie sent.

"I don't get it, Haymitch! I don't understand! What makes him think he can do this? Because he CAN'T! HE CAN'T!"

"I know, Peeta! You're preaching to the choir!"

"I won't LET him do it! I . . . we . . . all of us . . . didn't go through _fucking HELL_ and back for NOTHING! I WON'T LET IT HAPPEN!"

Haymitch is silent. At least he's started using his brain. The silent treatment normally works, if you can sit through the first initial shouting.

I hear the smash of breaking wood accompanied by a roar of rage. If Peeta has progressed to breaking furniture than that means things are really bad. I resign myself to having to redecorate the study. Well, rather, to nag Peeta about doing it. That's his thing.

"_What does he think he's doing?_ What the HELL does this asshole think he's _doing?_ What, does he think he can just waltz into the president's office and do whatever the_ hell _he wants? He can't. HE CAN'T! There are laws against it. There are LAWS against reinstating the Hunger Games! It's fucking called the Mockingjay Clause! Has he never even read it? _Who gave this fucker the keys to the president's office?_ We've had _enough_ tyrannical presidents. I'll kill this bastard myself if he sends kids into an arena again!"

Oh, death threats. I'm glad the house is no longer bugged. If it were I'm positive the Peacekeepers would already be breaking down the door.

Peeta's anger is past the smashing things and yelling stage. He's fallen into angry brooding silence now. This is either when an episode comes or he'll sit there stewing, occasionally muttering a profanity or something completely insensible about whatever he's mad about.

"Peeta," says Haymitch quietly after a while. "You know I'll do everything in my power to help stop this. I don't want this to happen any more than you do. If I have to start another rebellion, I will. But let's hope it doesn't have to go that far."

I exchange a look with my kids. They've seen Peeta lose it a few times (though it's still pretty rare), so it's not the yelling or breaking things that's shocked them. It's what he's yelling about. It's the fear at the prospect of having to go through what their parents went through.

Haymitch is speaking again, but it's not to Peeta. He's on the phone.

"Yeah, hello. Is this Plutarch Heavensbee? . . . this is Haymitch. . .yeah, yeah, whatever. . . Did you see the news? . . . Do you know what's going on?"

If I strain my hearing and press my ear against the door I can faintly hear the buzzy voice of Plutarch Heavensbee.

"Did you authorize this?" says Haymitch.

"Haymitch," says Plutarch over the phone. "You know I have no authority anymore."

"But you know what's going on."

"No. I don't."

"He's trying to reinstate the Hunger Games, Plutarch. Don't tell me you know nothing about it."

"Drekker can't do that. It's against the law."

Haymitch snorts.

"So I've heard."

" . . . Katniss?"

"Peeta."

"Oh, right." There's a pause. "Well, alright. Let me make a few phone calls to find out what's going on and I'll call you back."

"You do that."

Haymitch hangs up the phone. I hear him sigh and can only imagine he's taken a large drink. Peeta starts pacing again.

Then the door swings open and I nearly fall over and trip Peeta. He catches himself on the doorframe and helps me up. Haymitch rolls his eyes seeing me listening at the door. Peeta walks past me without looking at me.

"Go to your rooms," he tells the kids. They start to object. "GO! Don't argue! Go to your rooms! _NOW!_"

I'm startled that Peeta's yelled at them. Peeta has never, ever, not once, yelled at our children. I'm normally the one that does the disciplining and Peeta's the one that sneaks them sweets under the table.

They're just as shocked by this as I am. Before any of us has fully recovered they scamper off at top speed. Huh. They would never do that for me. Maybe I shout at them too much and they've become immune.

Peeta starts to stomp into the kitchen and I'm on his heels. He puts on oven mitts and takes a tray of slightly burnt cookies from the oven. He slams them on top of the stove and throws his oven mitts slightly harder than necessary. They knock the knives over. Peeta huffs in frustration. I hurry to pick them up before he can decide that those need to be thrown, too. I've had enough knives chucked at me in my lifetime.

Peeta leans on the counter, and rubs his temples. My heart sinks looking at him. I pry off one of the cookies with a spatula and brush off the black stuff. I take a bite and the abnormally loud crunch has Peeta looking up at me.

"They're delicious," I say. Peeta snorts. I shrug. "Food's food. Nothing wrong with it being a bit burnt," I say, winking. He doesn't catch my reference to that day in the rain all those years ago.

I sit next to him on the counter, and lay my head on his shoulder. He sighs, still rubbing his temples.

"Admit it," I say. "It was the prospect of burnt cookies that really sent you over the edge."

"Don't, Katniss," he says, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. "Just don't."

I frown, knowing it's going to take more than ill-placed humor to bring happy Peeta back. I wrap my arms around him and bury my nose in his shoulder, but that doesn't do the trick either. In fact, he looks even more defeated. I hate seeing him like this.

"Don't worry, Peeta," I say softly. "We'll figure this out."

"I hope so, Katniss," he breathes, and the faint trace of uncertainty in his voice scares me. A lot. "I hope so."


	3. The Loophole

"What do you think they're talking about?"

"What else would they be talking about? The Games, of course."

"I can't believe dad yelled at us."

"I know. I've never seen him like that before."

"You don't think that he's worried this is really going to happen, do you?"

I bite my lip, pondering my brother's question. His blue eyes peer at me anxiously from where he sits at the foot of my bed.

"I don't know," I finally say. "I mean, I doubt it will, but you never know, do you?"

Naan shifts uncomfortably.

"What do you mean?" he says.

"Well . . . I don't know. I mean, there might be some technicality in the law that would allow it—"

"But you heard dad, he said it was flat-out against the law. It's probably written down, word for word, _no more Hunger Games."_

I run a hand over my braid anxiously, tugging on it slightly. The small area of my scalp where my mother accidently ripped out my hair stings in protest. I sigh.

What I know, and what my brother does not, is that there _is_ a technicality that, if twisted right, could allow for the reinstatement of the Hunger Games. The reason I know this is because there is a small, battered notebook of my mother's containing something only a handful of people know. I found it one day, stuffed in a corner of the attic. Curiosity got the best of me. It was from her early therapy sessions. It contained memories, certain memories my mother very much wanted to forget. So I never told anyone what I found, even my brother. Especially not my mother. I considered asking my father, but didn't for fear he might tell my mother.

The thing that notebook contained that might allow a technicality in the law is the votes. Right after the war. Right after my mother lost her sister. President Coin called for a vote from the living Victors for one final Hunger Games. And my mother voted yes. She said in that notebook entry that she was so ashamed for doing so. She wrote that her doctor explained this was not her fault, that she was vulnerable because she had just lost Prim and Coin took advantage of that. But still she voted yes and it was because of this that the final vote was to have one last Hunger Games. Thankfully, she remedied that mistake by assassinating Coin, and the remaining government realized that was probably not one of their better ideas. But she still felt guilty about it. I'm sure if I brought it up, remorse would be the first thing that would pop into her eyes.

Nonetheless, if there are any records of this, as I'm sure there are, they could be dragged up, used as an excuse. If they were twisted just right . . .

"I don't know, Naan, I just don't know," I say.

"Dad and mom and Haymitch will be able to fix this. They can fix anything," says Naan confidently. But he hasn't convinced me. He seems to realize this, and frowns. "Prilly, they were practically instrumental in the rebellion. Panem all but owes them every bit of peace there's been since the war. They could get anything they wanted from them. If they wanted a . . . a. . .fifteen foot purple flying dinosaur and a pack full of unicorns they would find a way to get it to them."

"They can't get mom out of 12."

His face falls at my fairly reasonable argument. He scowls, and chucks a pillow at me.

"I was trying to make you feel better."

"Yes, that damn logic. Gets in the way of false hope every time, doesn't it?"

He stands, and I know I've ruffled his feathers too much.

"I give up on you," he says irritably. "I'm going to bed."

"You do that," I say, indifferent. Well, not exactly indifferent. Being alone with my thoughts isn't exactly what I want to do right now. But compare that to dealing with an irritable younger brother, and I'll take being alone.

Naan makes sure to shut the door loudly enough to know he's mad at me. It's the first time I've felt like smirking since the news announcement.

I look at my clock. It's nine o'clock. I have school tomorrow. I should get to bed, but what with the news announcement, I know it's going to be difficult to sleep, anyway. I take out one of my notebooks, and start doodling and writing useless nonsense until I can't keep my eyes open anymore.

* * *

><p>I sit in the middle of the bed I share with Peeta, my knees curled into my chest, staring absently into space. I feel almost numb. But what part of me doesn't feel numb is terrified.<p>

Peeta had sent me upstairs to get some sleep while he and Haymitch continue to make phone calls and try and fix this. But there's no way I can get to sleep without him here. I couldn't even keep my eyes open at eleven when he told me to go get some rest, and now that I'm in bed I can't sleep. Terrible thoughts keep floating around in my head, no matter how much I try to suppress them and think of nothing.

_What if we can't fix this? What if there will be another Hunger Games? What if my children get reaped? What if . . . What if? What if?_

Peeta stumbles into the room around one. It's clear he's been drinking. Surprising, really. Normally I'm the one that drinks with Haymitch and Peeta chastises _me_. How drunk he is, exactly, is a mystery, as he's trying very hard to hide it.

"What are you still doing up?" he asks me, clearly surprised.

"I can't sleep," I say. He walks to the bathroom, and my eyes automatically follow him. He leaves the door open, splashes his face with water. Well, at least he's attempting to sober up. He comes back, takes his shirt off. The fading scars on his skin that will never really go away shine in the moonlight streaming through the window. He pulls on pajamas and a T-shirt, and crawls into bed with me. He sits behind me when he realizes I'm not going to lay down, and twirls a bit of hair that has escaped from my braid between his fingers.

"Have you fixed it?" I ask. He freezes. He places his head on my shoulder.

"No," he says, and I can hear the disappointment in his voice.

"So you've been up all this time getting drunk with Haymitch," I say. He huffs, annoyed he's been caught. "Please," I scoff in disbelief. "We've hung around Haymitch since we were sixteen, and you don't think I can smell liquor on someone or tell when they've been drinking?"

"I'm sorry," he mutters into my shoulder. There's a pause.

"I don't blame you," I say quietly. Peeta sighs, gives my arm a squeeze. He lifts his head from my shoulder and starts to unbraid my hair and run his fingers through it. I close my eyes. When my hair falls around my shoulders in waves he scoots in closer to me, placing his legs on either side of mine and wrapping his arms around me. I lean into his chest. We both sigh at the same time.

"I'm sorry, Katniss," whispers Peeta.

"You already said sorry," I say, shrugging. "I told you already I don't care if you drink."

"Not about that," he says. "I'm sorry about this whole thing. I feel like it's my fault."

"Why would this be your fault?" I say, more than a little confused. He gives me a gentle squeeze, and buries his eyes into my shoulder.

"I just feel like . . . like there's something I missed . . . something I might have over looked . . . something we all did . . . or didn't do . . . after the war."

"Like what?"

"I don't know! Some rule, something . . . I don't know. I've read over the law a dozen times and it _clearly_ says 'The Hunger Games are to be abolished and never to be set up again.' And yet the President thinks he can do it, and he's not backing down. He thinks the law is on his side, but it's not! And yet he has support! _Support!_"

"Support from whom?"

"The people who matter," he says, the frustration in his voice clear. "The people who carry influence."

"And who carries more influence than war heroes?" I say.

"People with money," he says, snorting angrily.

It's like lead has dropped into my stomach at that. We have money, yes, but not like those people at the Capitol do. Not enough to throw around like that. Not enough to make a difference. We cannot fight with money.

"So we'll just have to find a way to get around that," I say, twisting around to look at him. He presses his temple to mine, and closes his eyes.

"What do you mean?" he says.

"I don't know yet," I admit. He's silent for a moment, thinking. Thinking hard. But he still seems so defeated.

"There's a loophole," he says, so quietly I can barely hear him. But when it registers, I feel the beginning of panic. Because his voice has lost all hope. "I should have told you earlier, but…Katniss…I can't…"

"What is it, Peeta?" I say. He looks anxious. I wonder if it's the alcohol speaking now, because Peeta has never had a problem getting his words out. And now he's hesitating. I take his face in my hands, force him to look at me. "Just tell me."

"Katniss. . . it's . . . it's a technicality . . . a technicality none of us saw coming. That . . . that vote that Coin called for, after the war. About whether or not to have one last Hunger Games . . ."

"No," I gasp. I feel like something is closing in around me. Guilt. Guilt and fear. "Oh, no, Peeta, you can't mean . . ."

He nods, closing his eyes tightly.

"_That's_ the technicality. If . . . If you hadn't killed Coin, we would have had one last Hunger Games. But it wouldn't have been the end of it and you know it, so don't regret doing it."

"I don't," I say, somewhat surprised at myself to find that that is one death I most definitely do not feel guilt about.

"But since the final tally was in favor . . ."

He doesn't say it. He doesn't say that this might all be my fault. Which it is. It so is. If I had never voted yes, Haymitch never would have voted yes, and the result would have been _no_, and we wouldn't have had this problem.

"That gives them the excuse they needed. To null and void the law."

"That can't do that, can they?" I ask anxiously, desperate for this _not_ to be my fault. To give me something to fight besides my own guilt. But Peeta only confirms my fear, and sends me into a pit which I don't think I can crawl out of.

He nods.

Peeta still will not say it. The blame in his eyes, or rather lack thereof, sends me over the edge.

"Just say it, Peeta!" I exclaim, tearing myself away from him, shaking. "Just say it, this is all my fault. Just say it."

His mouth opens in confusion.

"No! Don't try and deny it! It is! It's my fault this is happening! All my fault . . . if I hadn't been so stupid . . ."

"No," he says, understanding. "No, this isn't your fault. You couldn't have seen this coming. None of us could've. Katniss, you voted yes because you were upset over . . ." I stare at him wide-eyed, daring him to say her name and at the same time dreading it. "Over _her _death. And Coin took advantage of that. This is not your fault." He grips my arms, forces me to look at him. "This is _not your fault._ Don't you believe that for a second, okay?"

I don't respond and he gives me a slight shake.

"This is nobody's fault but the President's. _Okay_, Katniss?"

Silently, I nod my head.

"We'll fix this, Katniss, I promise you. We'll stop this. We'll find a way. I won't let our children go through what we went through. I promise you."

But for all his promises, for as hard as we try to stop this, as much as we fight it, it happens anyway.

And we arrive for the reaping on Tuesday the same as everyone else.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** _Yeah, I know. I skipped over them trying to fight it. But legal processes are boring to me. _And I want to get to the Games. Call me lazy, meh. I am._ But honestly if I have to waste one more chapter of them saying 'It's a technicality' my head just might explode. And I don't want to take up too much time with it, even if it does seem out of character because I really think Katniss, Peeta, and Haymitch really would start another rebellion, do anything, really, to prevent those kids from going into the Hunger Games, so just know that I know that, and I've decided to go OOC. This whole friggin storyline I find very unlikely in canon, so yeah, it's out of canon anyway, what's a little out of character? Especially since it's relevant to the plot. _

_So just know they don't win in this. They can't. Not against me :P lol. Oh yes, those kids are going in that arena. And there's nothing they can do to stop it. _


	4. The Reaping

The reaping, the first reaping since the third Quarter Quell, is terrifying for me. Peeta has his arm wrapped around me, probably to keep me from running away. But I can't run away. It's like watching in horror as someone dies in front of you (Which is practically what it is). You can't tear your eyes away. And what makes it so much worse is the possibility that my children might be the ones dying.

I can feel Peeta shaking. He, too, has the same fears I do. Only I'm having a slightly better time hiding it. Perhaps I am too shell-shocked.

We're sat in the Victor's chairs next to Haymitch. I expect him to make a joke, or make some disgusting comment, but he seems just as beyond words as we are. We have run out of words. Words don't work anymore. It's like I've lost the ability to form them or even think them. I clutch Peeta's hand tightly, not caring if we're on national television or not.

I can see my children, looking confused and scared, standing with the other kids their age, surrounded by peacekeepers. They look at me and Peeta with wide eyes and I try to look reassuring for their sake. Not scared. No, they are scared enough. I will have to hide my fear.

But it's not so easy when your hands are trembling so bad it's visible.

The mayor has been replaced. The kind man who made 12 a better place to live after the war was killed for it. This replacement from District 13/The Capitol is a tall and too thin man with black hair that makes him look sickly against his pasty face. He walks to the podium, gives a smile that sends a chill down my spine. He reminds me of a spider.

He starts talking, I don't know about what. I feel like I have gone deaf again. But I do notice Peeta is listening intently. And then reads off the names of past Victors. Haymitch Abernathy. Peeta Mellark. Katniss Everdeen-Mellark. I jump when I hear my name. Peeta gives my hand what's meant to be a reassuring, gentle squeeze but he doesn't realize how tightly he's holding my hand and it hurts.

Effie Trinket has the good grace, or perhaps she has changed so much over the past years, to not be excited. In fact, she looks on the verge of tears.

"Happy Hunger Games," she intones. "And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor."

She doesn't go on a long speech. She doesn't even say what an honor it is to be here. She just goes straight to the ball where the girl's names are. Six of those slips have my daughter's name written on them. I couldn't stop them from going in with every other girl aged twelve to eighteen. I failed to protect her. I have failed. I am failing. Didn't I fight a war so this would never, ever happen again?

Effie sticks her hand in the bowl full of slips, pulls one out, unfolds it. She nearly drops the slip of paper as she gasps. My heart drops like a stone. Only one name could bring that reaction from her. Tears leak out of Effie's eyes as she squeaks out the name.

"Pe-Perilla Mellark."

* * *

><p>I can't breathe. Haymitch has fallen out of his chair. Peeta is, for the first time in his life, speechless. I want to scream. I want to run away, and take my children away from what has become hell once more. I want to fight. I want my bow so I can kill the peacekeepers dragging my daughter towards the podium.<p>

This can't be happening. This is a nightmare and soon Peeta will wake me up and tell me everything is alright. I will have to check on the kids to make sure they are safe in their beds. I will not get back to sleep tonight.

But Peeta doesn't wake me up. I turn to him with desperate, pleading eyes.

"Wake me up," I moan. "Please, Peeta, wake me up."

I see the same pleading and desperation in his eyes. And he doesn't wake me up. He's waiting for me to wake him up.

And that's when this becomes too terribly real for me to handle.

The scream escapes from my throat before I can stop it. Chairs fly and Peacekeepers get knocked out by my thrashing elbows as I fight to make my way to my daughter. My daughter, who in this moment looks so much like Prim. The only thought in my head is to get to her. Get to her, grab her, and run away. Run to the woods. I can work on something from there. I'll have to trust Peeta to grab Naan and meet me there. And Haymitch. I can't forget Haymitch.

But a wall of white-clad Peacekeepers have come between me and her, holding me back from my little girl.

"Perilla!" I shout desperately, reaching my hand in between Peacekeepers toward her. When I realize I can't reach her I do the only thing I can think of. "Prilly! Prilly, run!_ Run_! RUN! _RUN!_"

She looks at me with wide, terrified eyes, and turns on her heel. She tries to do as I tell her, points her feet towards the safe haven that is the woods, but Peacekeepers grab her as they have grabbed me. She fights them, kicking her feet and managing to hurt two of them. She is her mother's daughter. She has inherited my fire. But it is not enough. She is dragged to the podium, tears pouring down her face. She is closer than ever. If I could just reach her . . .

I punch the Peacekeeper closest to me, knocking him out cold. They converge on me. Two grab me and I bite and kick and scream.

They're about to approach me with an all-too familiar looking tranquilizer when they are pulled off me. Strong arms wrap themselves tightly around me, pulling me away from the Peacekeepers and holding me still. I can't see the podium. I smell booze and I know it's Haymitch that's got me. Where's Peeta? I hope he's gotten Prilly and made a break for it. But when I hear her small voice reverberate around the square I lose all hope.

Effie congratulates Prilly in a voice that is clogged with tears. Effie doesn't even call for a round of applause. The whole square is utterly and completely shocked. I don't think one of them could bring their hands together even if they wanted to right now.

But there is one person clapping. The mayor. His dark sick eyes are on my face as he claps steadily. Every clap is like a stab to the heart. At last I go limp and all the fight goes out of me. Haymitch doesn't loosen his grip on me. Tears stream down my face as I look at me daughter. So scared and frightened. So small. Like Prim. Only no one volunteers for her. No one. They don't know what to do. They probably don't even know they can volunteer for her.

Perilla gets her hand shaken by the mayor. I want to scream at him to take his filthy hands off her. But I'm speechless.

Utterly and completely speechless. The mockingjay has lost her voice. When she most desperately needed it. I need someone to stop this, even if I can't. Peeta can. Peeta can stop this. Peeta can bring the whole county to another uprising to save our daughter.

But he's not. He's sitting in his chair, his head in his hands, looking down at the floor. His knuckles are white as he grips his hair. I don't have to look at his face to know he's fighting off an episode.

_No,_ I think desperately. _Do it. _For a mad moment I want him to go crazy and kill everyone in sight. That might save Prilly. But then I realize the only person he'll come after is me.

I slump against Haymitch, my head feeling light as any hint of hope fades away entirely. He barely manages to hold me up when I faint.


	5. My Children

"Pe-Perilla Mellark!'

There's a moment, hardly a heartbeat, when I think _that poor girl_. And then I have the misfortune to realize that that poor girl is me.

Me! Perilla Mellark! Effie Trinket's called my name! Almost numbly, I take a step forward. The kids in front of me clear the way to the steps of the Justice Building. They're in shock. The whole square is in shock. You could hear a pin drop in all of District Twelve right now. Two white-clad peacekeepers appear on either side of me, and I take another step forward. I have no choice. They're so intimidating. They're taller than me, stronger. I couldn't resist them if I tried.

I'm about halfway when I hear it. The worst sound I have ever heard in my life.

"_NOOO!"_

My mother's screaming. I look to see wild desperation in her eyes, and she's fighting to reach me. But a wall of peacekeepers has separated her from me, almost as though they had expected this to happen. She's knocked out two of them without even realizing it. She reaches between two peacekeepers, hand outstretched toward me. And that's when she starts to shout at me to run.

Run. Run where? How can I escape this? Then, of course it's the first thing that comes to my mind, because though they are dangerous, they are the safest place I have ever felt, with my mother at my side, protecting me, teaching me to use a bow, to hunt to put food on the table. If my mother screams at me to run, the hours spent in the woods with her have taught me not to think twice.

So I turn instinctively to the place of safety and isolation, the place where no one can watch us, she says. And I try to run. I try. I try so hard. But I have also turned straight into the peacekeepers, and if I want to get to the woods I have to get through them. And they have also grabbed me by the arms. I struggle fruitlessly to throw them off, but then they lift me up like I'm nothing more than a small, light bag of flour that even I could lift. I flail my legs, I manage to kick them both in the shin, and I'm pretty certain I've at least left bruises because I see one of them wince. But he doesn't drop me, and they just drag me to the podium like I'm nothing at all compared to them. Which, physically, I am. I don't take after my mom or my dad in terms of build. My mom says I remind her of Prim, because I'm so small. And it makes it nearly impossible to fight these two hulking peacekeepers.

When I step onto the steps my mother starts to fight them again, trying desperately to get to me. She's one hell of a fighter. She punches the one nearest her in the jaw and knocks him out cold. They converge on her, holding her down. She fights like a mad woman, biting and kicking and screaming. One of them approaches her with a syringe and Haymitch comes to her rescue, pushing them off her and dragging her away. He's the only one able to subdue her. I see the tears streaming down her face, but she stops fighting.

Effie Trinket's congratulating me, and I barely manage to squeak out an automatic thank-you. And when they set me on the stage in front of the mayor, I have no choice but to stand there and act like a good girl and shake his hand.

I look over at my parents. My mother is looking at my father, who's sitting with his head in his hands, his knuckles white, shaking. If I look to find reassurance I have found it only in Haymitch. He nods his head at me, mouths the words, _"It'll be okay, princess."_

That's what he calls me. Princess. He calls my mother sweetheart and me princess.

But that's all he has time to say to me, because just then my mother faints. I have never seen her faint because of shock. She's not that type of woman. But now she does. She falls in a dead faint. Haymitch barely manages to catch her and hold her up. He picks her up with the strength of a much younger man, a stretcher arrives, and he deposits her gently on top of it. Haymitch says a few words to the people who carry her away, and I know they're on our side because they nod, take her away to safety.

Haymitch sits back down next to my father, gives him a small shake. My dad stops clenching his hair so tightly and instead clasps his hand together, looks up at me. He's so pale and he looks worn-out but he manages to smile weakly at me.

I've seen him like that only once before. Pale and haggard after clutching onto something very tightly as his eyes stared off into the distance filled with hate. It scared me then, too. I was only about six but I remember it clear as day. He clutched tightly to a chair, looking straight at mom like he wanted to kill her.

It scared me so much that I had nightmares. After a week of hearing me wake up screaming and coming in to comfort me, my mom finally realized what was happening and explained it to me because she couldn't take me having nightmares. She always looked so distressed whenever I had nightmares and would take me to her and dad's bed, and hold me until I fell back asleep. But she'd always put me to sleep first in my own bed. It was like she wanted me to sleep on my own but never had the willpower to listen to me scream. After years I understand, because she had such terrible nightmares herself.

"_Why did daddy look like he wanted to hurt you?" I had asked as she tucked me into bed for the night and our scruffy old cat Buttercup curled up at my feet. I'm Buttercup's favorite but my mother is who he's very protective of. His yellow eyes glowed towards us._

"_Oh, baby, no," said my mom, looking sad at my words and brushing my hair back. "Daddy never wants to hurt me. He loves me very much, he's kind and gentle and never wants to hurt me or anyone. But a long time ago, long before you were born, there were some very bad people who did not like me very much, and they captured daddy to hurt me. They were very mean to him and did terrible things to him."_

"_What did they do?" I asked. Tears started to pool in my mother's eyes and she held me to her chest tightly so I wouldn't see._

"_They twisted his memories with tracker jacker venom. You remember me telling you about tracker jackers, right? How I told you what they do and what they look like and to stay far away from them? And if you ever do get stung what leaves to use to draw out the venom, right?"_

"_Yes, mommy," I said. _

"_Good girl," she said, kissing my hair. "The mean, bad people used tracker jacker venom and highjacked daddy's mind. They took his memories of me and twisted them and made him forget that he loves me."_

"_Nothing could make daddy forget he loves you!" I had corrected, shocked my mother would even suggest such an outlandish thing. This made her smile. _

"_I wish that were so, honey. But…I guess you're right. He did remember he loves me. But it was very hard and took a very long time and a lot of work and patience. He had to stay away from me for a long time to keep me safe from what they did to him."_

"_Why would you need to stay safe from daddy?" _

"_Because he was not like daddy. He was not daddy. He was the Cap—the bad people's—twisted puppet meant to hurt me. What they did to him…what they did to hurt me through him was make him think that I was the enemy. That I was trying to kill him and that his goal was to kill me before I killed him. But the good guys rescued him and helped fix him. Gradually the number of times when he'd forget himself and try to kill me decreased, and with a lot of therapy and time he was safe to be around me again. Occasionally he forgets, but he's in control now and is able to fight off those episodes. That's what you saw last week, Prilly. It was daddy fighting to remember he loves me."_

"_I don't understand," I remember saying. "Why would anyone want to hurt you through daddy? Why would anyone hurt daddy anyway? How could he even forget in the first place?"_

_My mom took some time before answering my questions._

"_Those people that hurt daddy …they…" she sighed, trailing off. My mother's not very good with words. My dad is, though. He can make you believe anything. "That's for another time, princess," she finally answered, and drew away from me, tucked me into bed and gave me a light kiss on the temple. "Just know, baby, that daddy never wanted what they did to him. Daddy loves us all very much. He will never hurt me. Not anymore. You're safe now. We're safe. The world is a better place than it was when daddy and I grew up."_

_Her features were troubled, and at that young of an age seeing my mom upset made me upset. She turned off the lights, and stood. "Don't talk to daddy about this, okay, baby? He doesn't like to think about it," she said, and then started to leave once I nodded._

"_Mommy!" I suddenly cried out, and she paused, her hand on the doorknob. In the dark I couldn't see her features. "Please don't go, mommy. Will you stay with me?"_

_She was still for a moment. Then she returned to my bed, footsteps as light as air. She sat down on my bed, placed a hand on me. I could see her grey eyes that matched mine sparkling in the small bit of moonlight that streamed through my window. She brushed my hair back, leaned down and kissed me. _

"_Always," she whispered._

_Then she laid down beside me, and I curled up next to her. In a very soft voice she began to tell me every good thing she'd ever seen anyone do until I drifted asleep to the sound of her voice and the gentle touch of her fingers in my hair._

And now I understand a bit more when I see my dad now. He has just had an episode. Only the second I have witnessed in my lifetime. Maybe it's the stress. But it scares me still. He gives me a reassuring nod. Haymitch speaks to him and he turns to him, looking grim and worried. But his eyes constantly flicker back to me.

Effie Trinket announces that it's the boy's turn, walks to the reaping bowl filled with the boy's names. Her hand shakes as it disappeared in the bowl of paper slips. Then she pulls it out, one slip clutched tightly between those perfectly manicured nails. Effie walks to the microphone, unfolds the slip. Then she gasps, and nearly drops it. That's not good.

"Naan Mellark," she breathes into the microphone.

If the crowd was shocked before, it's flabbergasted now. Because how is that possible? What are the odds of that happening? Two kids, siblings, nonetheless, of two previous Victors getting drawn in the reaping? No, the odds are definitely not in my family's favor.

I search the crowd anxiously for my younger brother, hoping and praying he'll be able to do what I could not and run away. But I know he won't, even if he could. He won't leave us all behind. The crowd shifts, and he appears, escorted by two peacekeepers as I was. His bright blue eyes are wide with fear beneath his dark bangs. I nearly start to cry when I see him. He walks up to the stage with his head held high, though. In his own way he is not going to let them win. He walks up the steps, stops in front of me. And suddenly I can't take it anymore. I burst into tears and throw my arms around my brother.

He's a good foot taller than me, strong, stocky, sturdily built like our dad. I'm tiny in comparison. Even though he's just as capable of taking care of himself and using a bow as both myself and my mother, I have always been overprotective of him. He was a lot smaller than me before we hit our big growth spurts and the kids in school would tease him sometimes. I'd have to tell them off or beat them up for it. He _is _my little brother, after all. And nobody messes with the Mellarks. Not those kids then, and not the Capitol now.

Naan doesn't throw me off, but instead hugs me back tightly. I'm surprised because he's had this whole macho-guy kick lately and won't let us show any affection towards him. And that's what I expected him to keep up now from the way he held his head up. But he's not like that. Not now. He'll look out for me just as I have always looked out for him. As we have always looked out for each other. And if I want to give him a hug in front of the whole nation, then he'll allow that to happen. This is his way of showing that the Capitol doesn't own us. We won't act the way they want us to. We won't turn on each other. And it's his way of telling me that I won't be alone.

This starts to make me cry in earnest. But now we're being ripped apart by the Peacekeepers. I look over at my father to see him standing, his hands clenched tightly at his sides, his eyes wide with alarm and fear and horror and shock. I briefly wonder if he's going to attack the peacekeepers like my mom, but of course he doesn't. He's a lot more rational than her, a lot calmer and a lot more subtle. He'll think up a strategy to save us, and not outright fight unless it's to our advantage.

I look back to my brother, and am even more surprised when I see the slight sheen over his eyes. He holds out his hand to me, and the Peacekeepers allow us to shake hands. We hold onto one another tightly before the Peacekeepers pull us apart and our hands slip out of the others'.

Then we're dragged into the justice building, deposited in separate rooms to say goodbye to the people closest to us. It's kind of pointless, because all the people I'm closest to will be going with me. And I'm not allowed to see any of them right now.

But there are people that come to visit me. Eric Cartwright. He's the closest thing I can call to a best friend. And let's face it, I'm not an idiot. I know he's started to think he's got a crush on me lately. Wordlessly he hugs me tightly.

"You'll make it back, Prilly," he tells me fiercely. "You've got to. You're better than they are. Stronger, faster. You can hunt. You've got your brother on your side. Your parents. They'll bring you home. You can win this thing. I know you can."

I seem to have lost my power of speech but he understands. He hugs me one last time before the Peacekeepers announce his time is up and he's taken away from me. There's about five minutes before the door opens again and in walks who I could call my best girlfriend. We've been friends for as long as I can remember, even if I do think she's a bit silly sometimes I'm still incredibly fond of her. She bursts into tears and hugs me. I end up comforting her more than she does me but that's alright. I don't mind. That's the way it always has been between us.

"Oh!" she says when her time's almost up. "I almost forgot," she digs in her pocket for a minute before holding out a small golden pin. "Your dad told me to give this to you as your district token."

The little golden circle gleams in the sun as she pins it on my shirt. I look down at it and see a small bird in flight. A mockingjay. My mother's mockingjay pin.

Suddenly the tears come back and I barely manage to sniff out a thank-you. She gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek before she leaves. I finger the mockingjay pin and fruitlessly try to mop up my tears before whoever my next visitor will be comes in.

It turns out that a lot of people will be my next visitor. It's almost a crowd as just about everyone I've ever met comes in to say good-bye. People who my parents know. Friends from school. Either I'm a lot more popular than I thought I was or this is out of respect for my parents. Every single one of them wishes me luck and guarantees that I'll come home. I wish they wouldn't. Because I can't help thinking of my brother every time they do.

At long last the line of visitors comes to an end, and the Peacekeepers are bringing me back out of the room. I can't help but be relieved when I see my brother. He, too, has been crying. I remember that he has a girlfriend he's been seeing a pretty good while. I wonder if she visited him. Of course she did. They're so far in love they put mom and dad to shame sometimes. Everyone thought they'd get married when they were a bit older. Now? I don't know. I don't know what's going to happen and it scares me.

Naan's eyes linger on the pin on my chest and hope fills his face. Because everyone knows what that pin means. That pin means hope. That pin means freedom.

* * *

><p><em>What a terrible nightmare,<em> is my first thought. I reach out beside me, seeking Peeta's comforting arms, but am met with empty space and I topple off the hospital bed.

_Where am I?_ I pick myself up off the cold tile floor and look around. I am in a small space with no windows. The only thing in the room is myself and the bed. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. This is too close to what it was like in 13. What I can imagine it was like for Peeta in the Capitol. What it was like during my trial. Solitary confinement. Injuries. Morphling. Hopelessness. Pain. Grieving.

I stand, and notice I'm still wearing my own clothes. For that I'm thankful. I'm not entirely helpless.

I go to the door, turn the handle. But it's locked. Fear slips in.

"Let me out," I say to the inanimate door. But it doesn't budge. I knock on it politely.

"Let me out," I say, a bit louder. Still the door does not move. I bang on it.

"_Let me out!"_

This time the door opens, and in steps Haymitch. He looks a right mess. His hair is all over the place, the buttons on his shirt are off by one, there are dark circles under his eyes. He's not drunk yet, but he's getting there.

"Where's Peeta?" I demand of him. "Where's Prilly?"

He looks at me, runs a hand over his face. Then he takes a drink from a flask. I want to shout at him, but I know that will probably get me strapped to a hospital bed again.

"Sit down," he says.

"Where are they?" I ask loudly.

"Sit _down,_" he growls, pointing to the edge of the bed. Reluctantly, I sit.

"Where's—"

"They're here, on the train. Peeta's in his room and Prilly is in hers. Both of them are guarded by Peacekeepers."

So it's true. It wasn't a nightmare. My daughter's name was drawn in the reaping. I clasp my hands around my knees to stop their shaking.

"There's more, sweetheart, and you aren't going to like to hear it."

I wait patiently to hear whatever news Haymitch has. It can't be worse than anything that is already happening.

He stands in front of me, grips both my arms. Perhaps to stop me from hitting him or maybe to keep me from fainting again. He hesitates.

"Just tell me already," I spout out. Haymitch takes a deep breath, opens his mouth.

And it's worse. It's much, much worse.

"The boy tribute is Naan."


	6. Getting Burned

My son. My son and my daughter. Both of them in the Hunger Games. Where only one person comes out. One way or another, I'm going to lose one of them. The thought is too much to bear. But I don't break down. I shut down. I shut down completely. I've become numb. And Naan's name being drawn is just another dull blow to the stomach.

It's not that I don't care. I'm just as distraught that Naan's name has been drawn as that Prilly's has been, in fact in many ways it's worse because one of them is going to have to end up killing the other or watch the other die. It's just too much. Too, too much for me to process.

So when Peacekeepers escort me to the room I'm to share with Peeta on the train, and lock the door behind me, I can't find the strength, the fire, to fight them and run away. I would turn around and bang on the door, but the sight in front of me has stopped me dead.

Peeta is sitting on the bed, just as he was at the reaping, with his head in his hands and staring at the floor. The room is utterly trashed. It's clear he's been throwing things again. He's broken several of the dainty Capitol glass and crystal ornaments and some of the furniture's been knocked over.

Careful not to step on any of the glass, I walk to him and kneel in front of him. I place my hand on his knee. He doesn't even acknowledge it.

"Peeta?" I whisper. The only answer I get is a sniff.

Tears are pouring down his nose. Peeta is having a meltdown. Worse than that. He's breaking. Probably already is broken. The Capitol has hurt Peeta again. And this is worse than the highjacking, because it's not just him that's getting hurt. It's not him they're threatening. It's the two people we love most in the world.

"Peeta," I say quietly. I place a hand on his cheek and start to wipe away the flood of tears. He looks at me with big, hopeless, empty blue eyes.

"You were right," he says, his voice shaking. I look at him in confusion.

"I was right about what?"

"You were right about . . . about not having children. We shouldn't have . . . if I knew this was going to happen . . . I . . . I never would have wanted to bring them into the world. I can't . . . I can't deal with this . . ."

And then he breaks down completely. Peeta is sobbing. He even starts to tear out his hair. He has kept it mostly together since this began and he has finally snapped.

Seeing him so broken shatters my heart. My fragile heart that had been so carefully reconstructed after the war. It took years to piece it back together. And even then it was like my skin. A shabby patchwork of scars and laboratory grown pieces. And all that hard work is gone in an instant.

I wrap my arms around him, stopping him from tearing out his hair. He clings to me so tightly it hurts. He sobs and cries, muttering out _"You were right, you were right . . ."_ over and over again. Tears stream down my own face. I've never seen him like this, so utterly broken. Not even when he was highjacked. Not even when he was begging me to kill him because he was a danger to our last, fake mission to assassinate Snow. No, this is worse. Peeta, who has been broken so many times before, who is in roughly sown back together pieces as is, is utterly and completely broken beyond repair now that our children's lives are threatened. Now that every bit of happiness we've had is being taken away. Just like I was afraid it would be.

"Peeta," I say, at a complete loss. I don't know what to do, what to say to comfort him. I'm not good with words. I'm not good at this. I'm a wreck myself. How can I keep us both together enough to pull through this? "Peeta," I breathe, and I wrap my arms tightly around his shoulders, kiss his neck, his ear, his hair, any part I can reach. I hold his head firmly against me. I rub his back, run my hand soothingly through his hair while he buries his face in my neck. "Oh, Peeta," I whisper. He wraps his arms tightly around my waist and holds me as firmly as I am holding him.

Eventually his cries subside into sniffs, his shoulders stop shaking, his tears run dry. His hands move from around my waist to my hair. He raises his head from where it rests and kisses my neck.

"I'm sorry," he whispers into my ear. I pull back, my hand cupped on his cheek. My lips find his and apply pressure before looking into his bloodshot eyes, lowered and looking at my ear instead of my eyes. I brush his hair back and my temple comes to a rest on his. I gaze at him intently until he looks at me. The startlingly blue cuts right through me.

"Oh, Peeta," I say again. I seem to be unable to form any other words. The tears start to pool in my own eyes as I look at him. It hurts to see him such a mess. He gives a small sniff and blearily watches a tear clinging to my eyelash through his swollen eyelids.

"Don't . . . don't cry, Katniss," he says quietly, and raises a finger to lift the tear from my eyelash.

I let out a watery laugh at the irony. Once again, Peeta has said the exact right thing, whether he knows it or not.

I loosen my hold on him, kneel to the floor, and take off his shoes. Then I remove my own and place my arms back around him. He pulls us back into the middle of the bed, onto the big, fluffy, excessive amount of pillows, and settles us in, pulls the covers up around us and wraps his arms around me, his red-rimmed eyes trained on my face. I can't stand seeing him like this so I lean over him, take the tissue box from the nightstand and clean him up. He doesn't try to stop me, just watches me. I toss the tissues on the floor (the place is a mess anyway, what's a few dirty tissues?) and replace the box back on the nightstand. Then I return my attention to Peeta. I brush his hair out of his eyes and kiss him on the cheek before settling into the familiar space between his arm and torso, resting my head on his shoulder.

"I gave Prilly your mockingjay pin," he says softly after a while, his voice hoarse. "As her token."

I'm surprised at this. That mockingjay pin has remained buried at the bottom of my sock drawer for years, hidden away because it brought up too many painful memories that I try so hard to forget. Peeta must have brought it to the reaping, possibly for this very reason. This must mean that it will serve some purpose. It will contribute to saving them both. I have yet to figure out how but I cannot ask him on the train. If Peacekeepers watch our every move then I _know_ the Capitol is listening to our every word.

"Okay," I say. He pulls me in close and kisses the top of my head. I look up at him. He's exhausted. It's been too long of a day. "Try and get some sleep, Peeta. Before the recap," I have the instinct to say "I'll keep watch," but I stop myself. I guess I'm already half in the Games. Now that we're going back on a tribute train I certainly feel that way. But I can't say it out loud. I don't want to worry Peeta. He's stressed enough as is without dealing with my eccentricities/paranoia. So instead I say: "I'm sure Effie will come and wake us up."

Peeta kisses me on my hair, settles into a more comfortable position, and closes his eyes gratefully. Within minutes he's snoring.

I watch him for some time, my thoughts a complete jumble. Sleep will not come so easily for me. For one I'm not tired. For two I feel like I'm being watched, monitored. A feeling I have not experienced for a long time. And for three I am terrified to go into unconsciousness, because who's to stop them from separating us once we're no longer aware? What's to keep them from stopping the train and dumping us off in the nearest desert, keeping us from mentoring our children? I trust Haymitch, but I cannot bear the thought of not being there to help.

I've never mentored before. Every time I've been on a tribute train it has been to take me to my death in the arena, if you don't count the Victory Tour. Which I don't. But never as a mentor. I have no idea what I'm doing and neither does Peeta. I'm pretty such that's why they've brought Haymitch along, so he can mentor us through mentoring. Normally they only allow two mentors max.

Wait, normally? No, there is nothing normal about these Games. Everything about them is wrong. Everything about them is unusual. Because by all rights they shouldn't even be happening. The Hunger Games were abolished. And now they're set up again. Possibly just to screw with us. Who cares why, anyway? I've never been concerned with the why. All I care about is that it's happening, and I have to find some way to get both of my children out of the Games alive. We do. Peeta and I. And Haymitch.

Because I'm not going to lose them both. Rules be damned. I didn't abide by them, and neither are my children. They're both coming home from this. If I have to strategize, beg, bargain, steal, lie, cheat, or kill I will. If I have to become the Mockingjay again I will. If I have to start a war, I will. I will do whatever it takes to bring my children home safely.

Whatever it takes.

* * *

><p>I don't get a wink of sleep. I wake Peeta before the recap and he looks so exhausted when I do that I have a strong urge to skip and just let him sleep. But I haven't seen our children since the reaping, and I have to see them. And I can't do this without Peeta by my side.<p>

We leave the isolation of our room and gather in the hallway. When I spot Naan and Perilla, I nearly start crying again, but I manage stay strong for them. I engulf the both of them in my arms, holding tightly to them, and I feel Peeta's arms encircle us, his head leaning on mine, his body pressed behind me. He gives Prilly and I a light kiss on the hair, and places his hand on the back of Naan's head. We stay like this, none of us wanting to let go, until there's a loud squeak and we look around to see Effie Trinket has burst into tears. She hovers for a moment, torn between leaving and giving us some privacy or staying. She compromises by giving us all a quick hug before scurrying from the room.

She's broken the moment, though, and silently we head into the car with the television. Peeta and I trail behind Naan and Prilly, holding tightly to one another's hands. It's hard not to be haunted by memories. Memories I'd rather forget. Haymitch and Effie sit waiting for us. Effie dabs at her eyes and nearly starts crying again. The four of us sit down on the large couch. Silently Haymitch turn on the television and we watch the reapings from the other districts. It's strange, almost, watching it, because there are no Careers now. No one has trained for this moment. No one has prepared for it.

The tributes from District 1 are older, just as large and brutal looking as they would have been had they been Careers, but they are clearly terrified. The girl clings to a small child who could hardly be older than ten before the Peacekeepers drag her away, and I'm struck by the memory of Prim. Prim and her untucked shirt, terrified as they call her name…screaming as the flames engulf her... I close my other hand around Peeta's, trying to force out the terrible memories.

Then they show District 2, and I get yet another shock. The Game has changed again. Because the name they've called out is Luke Hawthorne.

The odds are defiantly not in our favor.

I let out an audible gasp as the boy's name is called. He's eighteen. He looks exactly like him. Like Gale. Dark hair, grey eyes, olive skin, tall, sturdily built. Stronger-looking and more fit than Gale was at 18. But then, this kid has probably not been half-starved to death and beaten down by a life of struggle and misery. When the cameras locate him he's stood there in shock. The boy, Luke, is escorted to the stage by peacekeepers and they can't cut out Gale's horrible shout of "_No!"_ Because it's at the same time Luke realizes that was his name they called.

I drop Peeta's hand, clap mine over my mouth. My children look around at me, and as hard as I try to stop it tears spring to my eyes again. They look shocked. Because they don't understand. They can't possibly understand. They don't even know who Gale Hawthorne is. But Peeta does. Haymitch does. And they look as shocked as I feel. Peeta, sweet, gentle, understanding Peeta, wraps his arm around me, and I sit like a statue, staring in shock at the television, trying very, very hard not to have a breakdown. Because even though I've already been sent over the edge, this has pulled me down even deeper. Deeper under the water. This is when I inhale the water and I nearly drown. This is too much.

This is when I start to think it is not a coincidence.

I can't take it. I feel their eyes on me, everyone's, and I have to get out of this cart, away from everyone, away from their prying eyes. And so I do what I have always done. I run away. I'm at the door faster than anyone can stop me, pushing it open, stumbling into the hall, where Peacekeepers watch my every move and I want to scream. I want to get out, I want to breathe fresh air, I want to disappear into the woods. But I can't. There's nowhere to run to. I can't even flee. The Capitol has trapped me again. Trapped me on a train going 200 miles an hour that I can't escape from.

I gasp for air, and try to get out through the other door but a Peacekeeper stops me. Stands sentinel between me and freedom. So I back away from him slowly, turn and run to the only place left. The room I share with Peeta.

It's not a mess anymore. It's immaculate, even. Someone has cleaned it up. Too bad it was a waste. Because the first thing I do is throw one of those gaudy figurines and break the mirror. And it doesn't do a thing for me. So I pace, back and forth, back and forth, wheezing, gasping, feeling like I'm going to have a heart attack.

I half-expected Peeta to follow me but he hasn't, and I'm grateful because the sight of me so angry and distraught would probably send him into yet another attack. As if everything else wasn't enough. He hadn't had one in years until Prilly and Naan's names were drawn. And by the time he does finally show up it's dark outside and I've long since collapsed on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling.

He looks exhausted. Haggard, even. He sees the broken mirror and doesn't look all that surprised.

Peeta doesn't even bother to change his clothes for bed. He just lies down next to me and does the same thing I'm doing. Staring at the ceiling.

"Anyone else's kids we know going to be joining us at the Capitol?" I say in a humorless voice.

"Finn's daughter," he whispers.

"Oh, no," I gasp. Annie and Finnick's son, Finn, got married young a while back and had a daughter, Ariel. Since Finn's much too old to be reaped, I guess they had to go for the next best thing. Ariel's only twelve, and almost as fragile as Annie. "This isn't a coincidence," I say numbly.

"No. I don't think it is," Peeta answers.

"Why? Why would they do this? Why now?" I ask, looking over at him. He shrugs.

"I don't know," he says. "But I'm not going to let them win."

He could be talking about the other competitors. But he could also be talking about the Capitol. I know he's talking about the Capitol. _I just want to show them they don't own me. That I'm more than just a piece in their Games._

I turn on my side, run a hand down Peeta's shirt. He looks at me, grim and determined. I know that look. That look means he has a plan he'll do everything in his power to carry out.

"We'll do everything we can to bring them home, Katniss," he tells me, his hand wrapping around mine, looking at me steadily and surely.

"Yes, we will," I confirm fiercely.

The coals have been cooling for far too long. The girl on fire has been too afraid of her own fire for too long. Fire is catching. And the Capitol, the President, has unwittingly ignited the spark.

Woe to anyone who threatens my family now.

Because when you play with fire, you get burned.


	7. Cinna

I wake to the sound of Effie Trinket knocking on my door.

"Time to get up! It's going to be a big, big, big day!"

Apparently Effie has regained her bubbliness since the reaping. I groan, and shove the pillow over my head. I'm not a morning person. Never have been. I hate mornings. The only thing that helps is tea or coffee. So I drag myself out of bed, bleary-eyed, and put back on the clothes I wore yesterday at the reaping, and stumble out of my compartment to the dining car to find some.

Mom and dad are the only ones there. They both look exhausted. Like they didn't sleep a wink last night. I realize this must be extremely hard on them. After all they went through, to be back here, to have their children's names reaped…it must be hell.

"Where is everyone?" I ask them, as I sit down at the table. My dad pushes a cup of coffee towards me, already knowing what I want before I have a chance to ask. I load it up with sugar and cream. One sip is all it takes to make me a bit more aware of my surroundings. And it doesn't hurt that the coffee is absolutely delicious. Way better than the stuff we get back in Twelve.

"Effie's waking Naan up," says my mom, looking up from a pad of paper she's been reading. "And Haymitch is probably in his compartment nursing a hangover."

"What is that?" I ask her, inclining my head to the pad of paper.

"Nothing," she says, and tucks it away in her jacket before I can get another look at it. Mom takes a sip of orange juice like nothing happened. Feeling slightly grouchy now I've been left out of the loop, I take a big gulp of coffee and burn my tongue.

"How are you feeling, Prilly?" asks dad.

"How do you _think_ I'm feeling?" I snap at him. My parents sigh.

"Prilly, now's not really the time to be a moody teenager," my mom says, matching my irritability. "We're on your side."

"I know that," I say, insulted by this jab.

"Well, think before you open your mouth, princess, because sponsors don't take well to surly teenage girls who insult the people trying to help them," growls my mom, her eyes glinting dangerously.

"Hark who's talking," I retort. My mother glares at me.

"She's right, Prilly," says my dad, taking my mom's side. I stare at him in disbelief. "We're trying to keep you alive. The audience has to _like_ you. You can't be so…" he pauses, thinking how best to phrase this without setting me off. "So…headstrong. Not that we don't love you the way you are," he backtracks, catching my glare. "But it's a matter of their perception of you. Even your mom knew that during our Games. You've seen the tapes, so you know how she acted in front of the cameras. Trust me, back then she wasn't at all giggly or girlish or lovesick like she appeared. You know how she is now. Times it by ten, mix in a ton of surliness, and you've got sixteen year old Katniss Everdeen without cameras around."

I hear a thud and my dad winces. Judging by my mother's glare and my dad's grimace of pain I'd say she just kicked him under the table. This makes me giggle a bit.

"There's the idea," my dad says, looking heartened by my grin.

Just then in walks Naan, looking sleepy and bedraggled. He yawns, plops down at the table, and reaches for a roll. He's followed by an angry-looking Effie a few minutes later.

"What's the matter, Effie?" my mom heads her off.

"That drunken fool!" says Effie haughtily. "You go and try to wake him up, I can't stand his moaning."

"I'll go get him," my dad says, sighing. He gets up from the table and leaves. There's silence in the compartment for a few moments aside from Effie's huffs of anger, then mom clears her throat.

"Alright you two listen up," she says, her tone suddenly business-like. I lower my coffee and Naan looks longingly at his third roll before placing it back down on the plate. We both look up at our mother. "In a little less than an hour we'll be pulling into the Capitol, and you'll be put into the hands of your style team and stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you, but don't resist. It will help. Trust me."

There's barely enough time for me to groan at the fact that I have to get prettied up before dad walks in, closely followed by Haymitch, who is indeed nursing a hangover. He sits down next to me, and the overwhelming stench of stale alcohol floats towards me. I scoot away from him, wrinkling my nose. Haymitch takes out a flask and pours it into a glass of red liquid, but he wasn't counting on my grouchiness and anger. And seeing as how I'm closest to him and _someone_ has to give him a wake-up call to sober him up…I decide it had might as well be me.

Haymitch reaches for the glass but before he can touch it I've pulled it away from him and dumped the contents in the nearest plant. Haymitch gawps at me incredulously and I stare him down. My mother sniggers.

"Look, princess, I'm going to tell you the same thing I told these idiots you call your parents," growls Haymitch, taking the flask back out. "You don't interfere with my drinking. And I'll help you."

"You'll help us anyway," I say, making a grab for the flask and managing to knock it out of his grip despite his attempts to fight me off. "And you have to be sober to do it."

"Son of a-!" snarls Haymitch, falling to the floor and scrabbling for the flask. His hand is an inch from it when a large boot comes down to cover the silver container and smash it into the plush carpet. Haymitch looks up to find Naan, scowling at him.

"Well, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree," snorts Haymitch angrily. He gets up, straightens his jacket. "Fine, you two win. I'll stay mostly sober through this goddamn thing. But I'm going to need a bit of a drink to get rid of this hangover. Medicinal purposes, you know."

Naan looks to my mother. She nods, even though she's scowling. "Let him have it." Naan lifts his foot off the flask and Haymitch picks it up off the floor, polishing it on the edge of his shirt and straightening. "And that's _it,_ Haymitch," my mom says, glaring at him sternly. "Just enough for you to get by. I'll not have you going on a drunken rampage and making a fool out of yourself. You hear me?"

"Yes, _mother,"_ mutters Haymitch under his breath, taking a pull from the flask and tucking it back into his pocket. My mom scowls and I'm sure she's heard him.

I find it odd that my mother is somewhat tolerant of Haymitch's drinking. If it were up to any of us besides her and Haymitch he'd be completely sober. But then, my mom does a lot of things I don't understand sometimes. Perhaps she understands why he drinks. I sure as hell don't.

Suddenly, without warning, we're encased in darkness. We've entered a tunnel. My mother stiffens and my dad takes her hand under the table. She doesn't relax at his touch, however. Something is off. My mother is afraid. Afraid of what? Of the tunnel? Of the darkness? That wouldn't surprise me, given her nightmares. But somehow I don't think that's it. She only relaxes when we exit.

"Go to the window," says dad, looking at Naan and me.

"What?" I say, surprised. My dad looks very much like he's trying not to roll his eyes. He gets up himself, and looks out the window, dragging my mom with him.

"Come on, come to the window, smile, wave. They'll eat it up," says dad, drawing back away from the window. My mother just tries not to look disgusted. Naan and I get up and go to the window.

The Capitol, which I have never even seen before, sprawls out to the horizon. Bright and beautiful. A shining city, with tall skyscrapers and great paved streets and shiny cars and oddly dressed people. It's incredible looking. People look up at the train as it approaches, recognizing a tribute train. I raise my hand and wave tentatively. Some of them wave back, but not all.

"Keep waving," says dad behind me. "And smile." A smile cracks my lips and I wave more enthusiastically. As soon as we start to slow down and disappear from view I drop my hand and stalk back to the table.

"Good job, princess," says Haymitch sarcastically. "Play the people."

I scowl at him. My dad frowns at me, like I don't get two plus two equals four. In other words, like I'm an idiot. I scowl at him, too.

"He's right," says dad, ignoring my hostility. "You've got to play the audience. It's critical to your survival, both of you. You've got to play on their sympathies."

Naan furrows his brows. "And what exactly are their sympathies?" he says.

"Right now, at least if the Capitol people are still as shallow as they used to be," answers our dad. Effie makes an indignant noise at this statement and Haymitch grins. My mother's lips twitch but she doesn't smile. Dad plows on like he didn't say something offensive to Effie. "Then they're incredibly distressed about the star-crossed lovers from twelves' children being chosen. But you don't worry about that. Your mother and I will play that angle up. What you need to do, both of you, is be as sweet, innocent and naïve as possible. Because you're just children. You're _our_ children, and that is what will really get them. So we have to make you look as young as possible. Particularly you, Prilly."

"Why me?" I ask, annoyed I've been singled out.

"Because you're a girl," answers Haymitch. I narrow my eyes at him.

"What?" I snap, not understanding what me being a girl has anything to do with it.

"It's one of those instinctual things. Protect the poor, helpless little girl. You're the very essence of innocence. You're already halfway there," says Haymitch, looking me up and down. "With your blonde hair, your tiny stature. You look harmless. Sweet. Innocent. Have your prep team fix you up, put your hair in two braids, add some red cheeks and some ribbons and pretty dresses…you'll look like you're twelve. It's all about perception. What we want them to think is that you're only a child, what are you doing in such violent Games that never should have been reinstated in the first place? We want them to scream injustice. Because if we're to—"

"Haymitch!" says my mother harshly, cutting him off. She looks angry. And somewhat afraid. What is going on? Why'd she cut him off? Why does Haymitch look ashamed? He clears his throat, looking around the corners of the room nervously.

"…If we're to keep either of you alive, we've got to play their sympathies," he finishes hastily and a bit lamely. But I'm sure that's not what he was going to say. What are they keeping from me?

Whatever it is, I know it's important. I know it's critical to my survival, just as critical as playing the audience. And I'm determined to figure out what exactly it is. I _hate _being left out of the loop.

* * *

><p>I'm shunted into a remake room when we leave the train. Mentors don't have to look quite as flawless as the tributes, but we're required at the very least to look decent. And clean. And not as scarred as we are. I get the feeling I'm going to be wearing a lot of make-up over the next few weeks.<p>

The door opens, and one of the style teams comes in. The three are a lot more conservatively dressed than Flavius, Vienna, and Octavia were when I first met them. But by Twelve standards they're still pretty ridiculous looking. They tell me to strip, and I do. One of them actually shrieks at the sight of my naked body. I look down to see what all of the fuss is about, because I've gotten so used to my mangled skin that I forget what others might think of it.

I can see, really, why they look so shocked. First off, my body's covered in a normal amount of hair, and that in and of itself is appalling to these Capitol people. But what I'm sure really gets them is my scars. Each one of them glowing a shade lighter than the skin surrounding them, bright, obtrusive, ugly. At least to the prep team, they are hideous. I have long since stopped caring how ugly they are. Peeta doesn't mind them (he has enough to match, anyway), and I hadn't really planned on anyone else seeing me naked the rest of my life besides him and myself.

To me, our scars are like a roadmap of our past. Horrible, gruesome. Terrifying. But unavoidable and definitely unable to be ignored. They demand attention, the way my past demands attention from me every day. Every time I look into a mirror. Every time Peeta takes off his shirt or his prosthetic leg. Every time I open the book of the dead. Every time I look at Prilly and see Prim.

I push these sort of thoughts out of my head. Try to play my little game of listing anything good I've ever seen anyone do. But at the moment not a single thing comes to mind. So I revert back to therapy techniques to keep a grip on myself. _My name is Katniss Mellark. Married to Peeta Mellark. I have two children. Prilly and Naan. I love my family more than anything. The Hunger Games are back. And my children's names were drawn. I might lose them. I might lose them both…_

"It's alright," I tell the horrified prep team. Thoughts do not help me at the moment. Only action. It's best just to get this over with and stop my terrible train of thought. The prep team looks reluctant to approach me. Well, after all there's not many people who see a fire mutt in the flesh and come away unscathed. They loosen up slightly when I give them an encouraging smile. "You won't hurt me."

They set to work on the long, difficult task of making me look presentable. My hair is stripped from me. I'm scrubbed raw, dried. And then they stand there, staring at my scars, contemplating how best to cover them up. "We won't be able to erase them completely, of course, but we might be able to reduce the look of them if we…" and then they drag out the makeup and the body powders and prepare to erase what little remains of the damage I've been dealt that shows on the outside.

"Wait!" I say before they can get near me with the stuff. "Don't cover them up completely. I want the scars to show." They look at me like I'm completely mad. And maybe I am, but I realize that the scars could give my children an advantage. The audience, and in particular President Drekker, need to remember exactly who I am. Katniss. The girl on fire. The mockingjay. The face of the rebellion. And what better way to remind them of all I've done and been through than to give them a tangible piece of physical evidence? Like my scars?

The prep team does as I say, only placing enough makeup on my skin to make sure it doesn't shine in the cameras. They place a minimal amount of makeup on my face. A rack of clothes has been placed in the room. They don't tell me what to wear, but let me look over the clothes and decide for myself. I run my hand over the soft, silky fabrics and it hits me.

I've seen these before.

Tears prick my eyes and a hard lump forms in my throat. All around me, on this rack, what my hands are tangled in…are all that remains of Cinna.

All of the clothes he designed for me, from my first Games, from my victory tour, from the Quarter Quell and even…My fingers close on a hanger and I lift it off the rack. The coal-black fabric floods out over the variety of other colors. Unassuming. Plain. Damaged visibly and bloodstained, despite the repairs. Definitely not the prettiest of the lot. But by far the most important. My mockingjay suit takes center stage and commands the attention of the whole room. I hardly notice my prep team staring in amazement. The last time I wore this I had…

_I KILL SNOW._

It's like I have some sort of flashback or seizure or something. One moment I'm staring at the black fabric and the next I am in the city circle, at first pointing my arrow at Snow on live television, and then I am alone, staring at the Peacekeepers keeping the children locked in a cage. The hovercraft bearing the seal of the Capitol floating above me in the air.

I don't want to watch. I know what happens next. But I am frozen, my eyes locked on the scene. The silver parachutes fall. The children reach for the gifts eagerly. The parachutes explode, kill the children. I can smell the fire. Hear their screams and the whoosh of the hovercraft. Feel the blood and sweat and ashes on my face. See the medical teams rush in. The light blonde braid down the back, pointing down to the ducktail of her untucked shirt...the second explosion…Prim…the flames engulf my little sister…_Prim…not Prim…_and then I am on fire and dead, dead…surely I must be dead…

"Mrs. Mellark…Katniss…are you okay?"

"Oh my God, what's wrong? Can you hear me?"

"What should we do?"

I hear their babbling as if from a long way off. As if they are in another world. One that is not entirely real. What is much more real and tangible are the flames, the fire, the explosions, the blood, the death…Footsteps, a door slams and all I hear are gunshots, see the bullets slice a lemon yellow coat in the street through a display of high-heeled glittery shoes…the unnatural whispers of mutts...the overpowering scent of roses.

"_Katniss…Katniss…Katniss…"_

Finnick's head is ripped from his body…_nightlock, nightlock, nightlock…Katniss…Katniss…Katniss…_

"Katniss!"

Comforting, familiar hands touch my face. Wrap a silky robe around my shoulders. Guide me down to sit on the table. Blue eyes, eyes that I know better than my own, swim in the center of my vision. I want to look away but his hands won't let me, locked on either side of my jaw, fingers trailing around my neck. His gaze holds mine. Filled with passion. With hate. With murder. His hands wrap around my throat and squeeze. I am afraid.

"Katniss, it's me, it's Peeta. It's okay, it's okay…I'm here. Whatever it is I swear it's not real. Come back to me, Katniss…."

His words don't make sense. They jumble in my mind. Not real? Of course it's real. He tried to strangle me. It happened. It _is_ happening…Peeta's going to kill me…Snow's going to kill me…Coin's going to kill me…as heartlessly as they killed Prim. Except it will be through Peeta. Peeta will kill me.

"Katniss, there's nothing to be afraid of. I'm here, with you. It's me, Peeta, _your Peeta."_

My Peeta? My Peeta…

And suddenly he's no longer strangling me, rather he's holding me firmly but gently. Suddenly his eyes are no longer burning with hate but filled with concern. The smell of fire disappears. I'm no longer in the city circle but in a prep room in the remake center. I don't see Prim bursting into flames but rather Peeta kneeling in front of me and the prep team hovering over his shoulders, watching us with wide eyes, bouncing up and down with either excitement or anxiety. Just like the cameras do. Sickening. My eyes flick back to Peeta.

"Peeta?" I whisper.

"Yeah, Katniss," he says hoarsely. He smiles in relief, his eyes light up. His hands, which are trembling slightly, stroke my hair down and he pulls me in for one kiss, then another, and another. I wrap my arms around his neck, bury my nose deep between my arm and his neck. He twists slightly and I redouble my grip on him, afraid to come out of my hiding place. "Could you give us a minute, please? Actually, I think you can go. I'll take it from here."

I hear the sound of footsteps and the door close and we are alone. Peeta pulls me closer to him, holds me tightly. My grip on him is like death. I breathe in his scent deeply. It's tainted by some kind of Capitol perfume. The fabric of his shirt is not worn down and soft with use but silky and new. He's wearing a stiff jacket with shoulder pads. I cling to the bare skin of his neck and the soft feel of his hair, both unnaturally smooth, but closer to him than the clothes. Bits of him remain under this shell, but he is not exactly my Peeta. This is camera-ready Peeta. But he'll have to do for now. At least he's better than homicidal Peeta.

"What happened?" he asks gently, stroking my hair. I pull back to look at him. His face is smooth. His scars, while somewhat diminished underneath makeup, show clearly. My finger runs down the one that goes from his hairline to his eyebrow. He asked for the same thing I did. To let the scars show. My fingers tangle in his hair and I take a deep breath. At the very least we're on the same page.

"I don't know. I had some sort of flashback or something," I say. I look back over to the rack of clothing and notice my mockingjay suit has fallen to a crumpled pile on the floor. I must have dropped it. "They're Cinna's…all the clothes he's ever designed for me. _All_ of them."

Peeta turns to look at the rack of clothing. His eyebrows furrow and he stands. My arms fall from his shoulders and clasp tightly on my lap. He goes to the rack and picks the mockingjay suit off the floor, holding it out.

"I see," he says, his lips pursing and turning upside down into a frown. Am I wrong, or do I hear a touch of anger in his voice? He carefully places the suit back on the rack. He pauses, his back turned to me. His fingers brush over the fabrics the way mine did. They pause over the hard, bumpy texture of the jeweled interview dress, but move on quickly. At last they come to a stop midway down the rack. He grasps the hanger and pulls it out. On it rests a casual, simple orange dress. Short sleeves and a sweetheart neckline. A small bow tied at the waist and flowing down in an a-line to the knee. "You never wore this one," says Peeta, his forehead creasing as he tries to recall a pre-highjacking memory. "I don't think so, at least."

I realize he's right. I have not worn all the clothes on the rack. Some of them I have only ever seen in a sketchbook. A designer must have actually made them after his death. Perhaps Flavius, Octavia, or Vienna.

"Real," I confirm before he can ask. "I never wore this one, and a lot of the others. What's your point? Wait, you want me to wear it?"

"I want you to wear _something,_" he says with the hint of a smirk. But his eyes are still troubled. Something is on his mind, but he doesn't want to share it. At least not here. Where we are surely being watched. We cannot speak openly here. Peeta places the dress on a hook at the end of the rack, and walks back to me, pulling me up to a standing position. He tucks a hair behind my ear and sighs, pulling me close. I rest my cheek on his shoulder. His fingers curl around mine and he tucks our linked hands in close, like we're dancing. His head touches mine and his arm tightens around my waist. My hand slides up and plays with a curl at the base of his neck.

"I don't want to have to be the star-crossed lovers from District Twelve again," he whispers into my hair.

"Me neither," I answer quietly. Seemingly without noticing it, Peeta begins to sway gently to an invisible tune. I follow his movements without really noticing it. "I just want to be us." He nods his agreement against my head. I close my eyes, and allow myself to be transported to a different place and time. Peeta and I have danced plenty of times before, of course. On the Victory Tour. At Capitol parties. But there's only one time that sticks out the most in my memory. The happiest memory I have since that before that fateful reaping day all those years ago, besides of course when our children were born.

_Peeta, looking so handsome in nice clothes. Not the fancy Capitol clothes, but clothes that are purely from District Twelve. Clean, dark pants, shined up boots, a crisp white shirt. Looking as happy as I'd seen him up to that point. More himself than he'd been since his highjacking. His smile lights up the whole room and fills me with warmth as he sees me. I wear flat white shoes and a flowing white dress that comes to just below my knees. Short, puffy sleeves and a sweeping neckline. Very modest and simple. Not a bead or jewel in sight. No ball gowns or trains or sleeves that fall to the floor. Not even a veil. No over-the-top dramatic wedding dress for me. Those days were long gone. I am no longer the Capitol's puppet, and we are no longer the star-crossed lovers from twelve. We are simply us._

_Peeta takes my hand, and leads me out of our house. We walk down the street of the Victor's Village hand-in-hand at a leisurely pace. There's no need to hurry. We have all the time in the world. To just simply _be._ We don't go straight to the newly rebuilt Justice Building but take a more roundabout route through the meadow. No one seeds it, but it's already turned green again. The thought that I am walking on graves never leaves me, but the place is so peaceful and beautiful that I can tell it's going to be one of my favorite places. I couldn't imagine putting our loved ones to rest in a more beautiful place._

_Spring is in the air, and the meadow is beginning to flower. Soft white flowers, plenty of wildflowers, and best of all bright dots of yellow dandelions. Peeta can't possibly know how much dandelions mean to me, so he surprises me when he starts to pick them. He carefully tucks them into the long braid down my back. I'm so overwhelmed by this seemingly innocent gesture that I kiss Peeta. I catch him off-guard, it seems, because I haven't been exactly free with my kisses. We kiss for a long time before we finally break apart and he holds me close, his right hand linked in my left and his other around myh waist while mine rests on his shoulder, as if we were dancing. He sways back and forth with the wind and I follow him and the imaginary tune. It's so sweet and in that moment I feel truly happy. Happier, I think, than I have been since before my father died._

"_What is it with you and dandelions?" says Peeta softly after a while, his eyes twinkling with amusement._

_I merely smile, and shrug. Someday, I'll tell him. I'll tell him all about my dandelion in the spring. The flower that means hope. That means I am not doomed. That flower that is inexorably linked to _him_, my boy with the bread. And how it means that he is my hope. But not today. I stand on tiptoe and give him a sweet kiss on the cheek. He smiles genuinely and warmth floods through me. "Let's go get married," I whisper to him. _

_His grin broadens, and he takes me by the hand. On our way out of the meadow he stops every few feet and picks a wildflower. By the time we reach the edge he's got a whole bouquet, and he gives them to me. "Can't have my bride show up without a bouquet now, can I?" he says, smiling. I press them to my nose, inhaling the fresh, happy scent and smile back at him. _

"_Thank you, Peeta," I say. And I wonder if he knows that my thanks is not just for the flowers. It's for everything. Everything he's ever done for me since he first tossed me that burnt bread in the rain. My thanks…it's for him._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **_I know, I know…I waited almost a month to post this. I'm a horrible human being. I've been doing other stuff, honestly. I just needed a break from writing fanfiction. I have, however, got my plot for my book figured out :D yays! And I've been attempting to get my whole college situation figured out. Plus, I had really hit a wall with ideas for this story. But don't worry, I've got more written for later chapters and I've got the arena figured out…plus a little bit of teenage romance ;D Cookies to anyone who guesses who's going to have a little thing going on for each other :P Though I suppose if you can guess it at this stage it's either really obvious or you're a right Sherlock Holmes. :D_

_Thanks for reading, and pretty please review! Cherries on top to anyone who does :P Geddit? Geddit? Because … of the… nevermind. o.o_

_:P lol j/k_

_REVIEW!_


End file.
